The King James Men

by Samantha Grosser

  In the silence Ben moved forward to the fire and threw on more wood, poking at the embers so that the old logs fell through, throwing sparks into the room. Richard watched them scatter and fade as his friend stepped back to retake his seat. No one spoke, an awkwardness between them all until Ben took it on himself to dispel it. He turned to his sister, forcing a brightness to his speech.

  ‘So, little sister,’ he said. ‘I hear you have a suitor at last.’

  ‘I’ve had a good many suitors, thank you very much. You make it sound as though no one’s ever shown an interest before.’

  ‘But this one, our father wrote me, might actually come to something.’

  ‘Our father’s opinion is premature. We have not met.’

  Ben smiled. ‘Be careful, Nell, lest you become an old maid.’

  ‘I would rather be an old maid than an unhappy wife.’

  ‘You cannot put off marriage for ever.’

  ‘You married for love. Or have you forgotten?’

  The good humour slipped from Ben’s face, and when he spoke his voice barely rose above the crack and roar of the fire. ‘I haven’t forgotten.’

  Thomas Kemp said, ‘His name is Hugh Merton. He is a spice merchant and his father keeps a house just a few streets away.’

  Ben nodded, managed a smile. ‘So you will be able to come and go here as you like,’ he said, chucking his sister’s chin with a none-too-gentle finger. She snatched her head away from his touch, just as Ben had jerked away from his mother. They were too alike, Richard thought, and watching them was painful.

  ‘He seems a likeable fellow,’ Thomas Kemp went on. ‘I’ve known his father many years. They are a good sort of family, and I believe he will make a good husband for Ellyn.’

  ‘He sounds like a good match, Nell. I may yet have nephews and nieces to spoil.’

  Another silence fell, the other sister’s children come and gone in the years of Ben’s absence so that he did not feel their loss as keenly as the others. Every so often a spatter of rain fell through the chimney, causing the fire to hiss, and, outside, the Abbey bell rang the lateness of the hour. Its chime just reached them above the pounding of the rain against the road.

  Chapter 3

  October 1604

  A friend loueth at all times, and a brother is borne for aduersitie.

  (Proverbs 17:17)

  * * *

  Ben was already at breakfast in the dining room when Ellyn came down the next day. He had been up since before the dawn, using the quiet of the early hours to pray undisturbed by the chatter of the house. His morning prayers had been for patience to get him through these days in London away from the true congregation, the people who knew his heart, and where he had no need to pretend. The worship had brought him joy and he was peaceful now in the silent dining chamber, his soul at one with Christ, the words of prayer still fresh in his thoughts. Remembering Brewster’s counsel, he resolved to use soft words.

  The old greyhound lay at his feet, gazing up at him with dark adoring eyes. Reaching down to touch her head, he toyed with the idea of taking her back to the Midlands. She would like it there, freedom to roam, rabbits to chase. But she was too old now for the journey, her muzzle turning grey and stiffness in her joints. She had been just a pup when she came to him, a first gift from his wife right at the beginning, when love was still just a possibility between them.

  Ellyn took a seat across from him at the table, her back to the window, and he watched as she picked at her bread, lifting crumbs and morsels of ham to her lips but barely eating a mouthful. She had changed little since the days of her childhood, and he waited awhile, knowing she had something she wanted to say. Eventually, though, his patience wore out. ‘What?’ he demanded.

  ‘Is that how they converse in the Midlands?’ she flung back. ‘In one-word sentences? You must have your work cut out as a tutor.’

  He almost smiled. He had forgotten her acid tongue. He asked again. ‘Was there something you wanted to say to me?’

  ‘I was wondering how long you are going to be with us. Now I’m not so sure I care.’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  She sighed. ‘Because you are my brother and though it pains me to admit it, I have missed your company these many years.’

  He gave her a wry look. ‘I pity the man that marries you,’ he said.

  The archness left her eyes, all the humour snuffed out in an instant. She sat back, sullen, her head turned away.

  ‘I’m sorry, Nell. I was teasing. I had forgotten.’ About the marriage negotiations, he meant, the deal that was almost done.

  She shrugged and pushed her food away from her. She had eaten none of it. ‘It’s not your fault,’ she said. ‘And I suppose it had to happen sooner or later. I can’t put it off for ever, however much I would like to.’

  ‘It’s God’s will that we marry,’ he said gently. ‘What future is there otherwise?’

  ‘But you married for love.’

  ‘I did. And if I had not, she might still be alive.’ He stabbed at a final hunk of cheese with the point of his knife and it crumbled with the force. He picked up a piece, lifted it halfway to his mouth before he lost interest and let it drop back to the trencher.

  ‘You still miss her, even after all these years?’

  He nodded, though the word miss barely began to describe the ache he still felt when he thought of her, his Cecily. He still saw her sometimes, in the face of another woman in the street, a certain way of movement, a look. Or he saw her in the corner of his vision when the light was dim, how she was the day he saw her last, the day she had begged him not to go, when she was big with child and pleading. He had relived that moment many times. He should have listened, should have trusted her instinct.

  ‘You should marry again,’ Ellyn was saying. ‘You’re still not bad-looking. I’m sure there must be some poor girl that would have you.’

  ‘Have you anyone in mind?’ He remembered the girl Alice from last night and how she had watched him, and wondered if his sister was plotting. But she shrugged.

  ‘A man should have a wife and children. Or else who will carry on the name of Kemp?’

  She was right of course. He was a disappointment to his father on more than one account. ‘Perhaps I will,’ he lied. ‘And surprise you all.’

  The door swung open with a creak and Alice appeared, sleep still around her eyes. She was very plain, with her large-boned features and short-sightedness, and as the thought went through his mind, she saw him, stopped abruptly and looked away, confused.

  ‘Alice?’ Ellyn said. ‘Did you want something?’

  The girl remained just inside the door, undecided.

  ‘Come,’ Ben said kindly. ‘Have some breakfast.’

  ‘I was looking for Doctor Clarke,’ she replied then. ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s down from his chamber yet,’ Ellyn said.

  ‘Thank you.’ The girl turned and her skirts swished out around her as she fled the room.

  ‘Well’ – Ellyn smiled – ‘I think Alice would have you if you asked her.’

  He shook his head. ‘Where did she come from?

  ‘She’s some kind of cousin.’

  ‘And what kind of cousin would that be?’

  His sister shrugged. The complexities of family relationships held no interest for her. ‘A stepchild of Aunt Grace I think.’

  ‘Aunt Grace has married again? How many times is that?’

  ‘This one is number four, and he has made a fortune in spices.’

  Aunt Grace, their father’s older sister, as successful in the acquisition of wealth as her brother, her trade the only one that was open to her: her hand in marriage.

  ‘What does she do to them?’

  ‘It’s probably better not to ask.’

  He smiled. ‘So … tell me about Alice.’

  She considered for a moment. ‘Aunt Grace’s new husband’s daughter wanted out of the way. Father said she could come h
ere. He thought she would be good company for me after Sarah … died.’

  Ben nodded. It was the first direct mention of their sister, the sweet one among them, the peacemaker. ‘And is she? Good company I mean.’

  ‘Mostly, though she doesn’t say a lot.’ She thought for a moment. ‘She hasn’t become the sister I’d hoped, but perhaps she will in time. Perhaps she is still missing her family. I don’t know.’ She shrugged. Then she said, ‘And it would seem she’s scared half to death of you.’

  ‘Why would she be scared of me?’ He was surprised.

  Ellyn laughed. ‘Remember how you were last night? Drenched and muddy from the road, blood on your face like some mad spirit from the storm?’

  He recalled. ‘I was not in the best of tempers. It was a hard ride.’

  ‘And of course if she likes you and she’s shy, then that would make her afraid of you too.’

  He turned to look at the door where she had stood as if to recollect her better.

  ‘So be kind to her, big brother, please?’

  He swung back to face her, temper roused by the insinuation he would be anything else. What was it about his sister that brought him so quickly to anger?

  ‘What do you take me for?’

  ‘I just want you to be kind to her.’

  He said nothing and stabbed at his cheese again, more carefully this time, lifting a piece to his lips on the point of the knife. Ellyn broke her bread and began to eat. The door creaked again and Richard appeared.

  ‘Whatever is wrong with Alice?’ he enquired. ‘She looks as though she’d seen a ghost.’

  ‘Ben frightened her.’

  Richard laughed. ‘You aren’t still scaring women, are you, Ben? I would have thought you’d grown out of that by now.’

  Ellyn shot him a look of contempt she more usually reserved for her brother. Ben lifted his eyebrows at Richard, who looked bewildered.

  ‘Men!’ Ellyn spat, getting up from the table, smoothing her skirts. ‘The world would be a better place without them.’

  ‘You love us really,’ Ben chided, but the look she gave him over her shoulder as she strode from the room said otherwise.

  Richard watched her go, dismayed. ‘What did I say?’

  ‘She thinks me unkind and your comment confirmed her belief.’

  ‘I am sorry, Ben. I didn’t realise. It was something of nothing, just something to say.’

  ‘You have no need to worry. Worry when she and I stop fighting. Then you will know something is truly wrong.’

  Richard took the seat at the table that Ellyn had left, broke his bread and began to eat, small mouthfuls of mutton and cheese, washed down with ale. They sat in silence. The ease of the old friendship had left them, too many years gone by. Ben put down his knife and sat back to watch the other man eating, observing the new lines on the pale baby face, the jowls growing heavier and grey flecks in the thinning hair, but the same blue eyes with their air of innocence. He could think of nothing to say, and it made him sad.

  At Cambridge they had loved each other, sharing a friendship that buffered them against the cold severity of university life. They had been little more than boys at first, striving to find their way in a world that was harsh and strange. He could still remember his relief when he realised that the boy who would share his room and his bed and his life was a boy who was, above everything, kind, even when he did not deserve such kindness. For Ben had been adrift when he arrived at Cambridge, searching for something he could not have named, and the fire of his unchannelled desires often led him into trouble. It was Richard, with his kindness and his steadfast faith and a love that never wavered, that had won his soul for God. No man could do more for another. But in spite of all they’d been to each other once, they were as strangers now, and the realisation grieved him: such a friend had surely been a gift from God.

  Richard sensed the scrutiny and looked up. He said, too quickly, ‘I am grateful to your father for having me here. It has been most helpful.’

  ‘My father is a generous man,’ Ben replied. ‘And he feels beholden to you – all that you did for me … before, when I was in prison. No father could hope for a better friend for his son. But …’ He stopped, hesitating to broach the doubts that had begun to form, suspicions he was reluctant to consider.

  ‘But?’ Richard prompted.

  ‘But,’ Ben echoed, ‘I am surprised you would choose to come here now, when loving me has cost you so dear in the past.’

  Richard gave an equivocal tilt of his head, as if to say it surprised him too. Then he said, ‘Many years have passed since we parted.’

  ‘Do you see any change?’

  Richard smiled. ‘A few more lines. A grey hair or two.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘I know. But what would you have me say?’

  Ben nodded, their differences well known and intractable: there was no need to speak of them. He said, ‘But I had thought you preferred to keep a distance between us these days.’

  ‘Your father offered,’ Richard said. ‘I paid him a visit when I first came to Westminster and we talked together as though no time had passed at all. He told me of your work for the Company in Aleppo, and his belief he might have made a merchant of you after all. How could I refuse?’

  Ben was silent. Richard had always been loved by his father, an ease of conversation between them that Ben had never enjoyed. And he could understand the appeal of lodging here: a comfortable house and good company, a stone’s throw from the Abbey. But Richard knew well the costs of keeping close to a Separatist – he had paid for the friendship many times over. Left out in the cold, his loyalty questioned, his ambitions thwarted in spite of his talent. Now, at last, he was a king’s translator, a preacher at Canterbury, the taint apparently lifted at last. So why would he risk it all again?

  ‘Does Bancroft know of your choice of lodging?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve made no secret of it.’

  He said nothing, considering. They had parted on uneasy terms seven years ago, love strained by the chasm that divided them, neither prepared to bend towards the other. But Richard had never given up trying, always hoping he might yet bring Ben round. Did he still imagine he could persuade him to recant? It was hard to say.

  He watched Richard for a moment more before he slid back the stool from the table with a harsh grating on the floorboards that made the other man wince. Then he got up and walked away, leaving Richard to finish his breakfast alone.

  Later, outside in the long, narrow garden that stretched behind the house, Ben sought out the weak autumn sun to sit and read. In the aftermath of the rain a pale warmth dappled the grass, the trees stripped bare now and the ground strewn with the unraked leaves. High clouds scudded overhead in a clean blue sky, and the raindrops that still clung to twigs and grass glistened brightly.

  He made for the pond, knowing from long ago where to find the warmest spot, but when he got there he found the seat already taken. He swallowed a sigh of irritation, and Alice looked up in alarm as his shadow fell across her page. Remembering his sister’s warning, he stepped back a pace: he had no wish to frighten her further.

  ‘It’s a lovely spot,’ he offered. ‘I used to read here often as a boy.’

  ‘I will go,’ she answered quickly, closing her book in preparation to leave. ‘You have prior claim.’

  ‘No, not at all. You were here first and you’re reading your Bible. Don’t let me interrupt you. There’s room on the bench for us both.’

  She gave him a small smile and shifted along, tense and reluctant, and he thought he should have let her go when she offered. He sat down, a person’s body width between them, his own Bible unopened in his hand. The silence grew uncomfortable.

  He said, ‘Who taught you to read?’

  ‘My mother.’ She answered eagerly, smiling as she remembered. The thought made her prettier, smoothing out the furrow on her brow.

  ‘You must miss her.’

  ‘Very much. S
he taught us all to read from the Scriptures, my brothers and I, and the servants’ children. It was a godly household. My mother’s great-grandfather burned as a Lollard.’

  The Lollards had been the first to read an English Bible – translated by their founder, John Wycliffe – and they paid dearly for their beliefs.

  ‘I am sorry to hear that.’

  ‘My mother told me they used to keep pages of Wycliffe’s translation hidden in the roof. It must have been terrifying.’

  ‘Yes, it must.’ For Cecily too, he thought, when he had his pages of Henry Barrow’s writings hidden in the walls, and Barrow about to hang. He should have paid more attention to her fear. He should have understood.

  ‘Ellyn said that you taught her to read,’ Alice said.

  ‘I taught both my sisters, but Ellyn was the keen one.’

  ‘I never met Sarah.’

  ‘You would have liked her. She was the kind one among us.’

  ‘Ellyn is kind.’

  He smiled. ‘All the time?’

  She nodded and turned her face away from his look, a self-conscious flush blotching her neck.

  ‘Your loyalty does you credit,’ he said, ‘but I know my sister well.’

  She said nothing, her head still averted. One hand smoothed the battered leather cover of her Bible, over and over. Like his own it was well used, a Geneva, the version the king hated most. Poor girl. She had little choice but to be loyal to Ellyn – who else had she got? At least until her father found her a husband and shipped her off elsewhere. Still, if Aunt Grace was involved it would be a good match: that woman had never done anything except for advantage.

  In the silence he opened up his Bible. It fell open at Psalms where the pages had worn thin from constant handling. He ran his eye across the page, the words well known, so long his source of sustenance, and began reading silently.

  Judge me, O God, and defend my cause against the unmerciful people: deliver me from the deceitful and wicked man. For Thou art the God of my strength: why hast Thou put me away? Why go I so mourning, when the enemy oppresseth me?